


Embers

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blindfolds, Ficlet, Holidays, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Aulë’s in the holiday spirit. Melkor could be swayed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for “Wrapped/ing Person” prompt on [my bingo card](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/153917135000/my-holiday-themed-bingo-under-cut-you-can-make).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The manor tucked into the far corner of Manwë’s too-large land is a humble shack compared to the towering palaces of the other Valar, but it serves his purpose well enough: it projects that he’s truly cowed. There’s still a flicker of bitterness every time he ascends the steps. The coldness of the weather—something those accursed Noldor actually _asked_ for in regards to their holiday—does nothing to better his mood. He could burn it all away, but he suffers instead like the rest of them, in a too-thick coat and a scarf to hide his scowl. By the top of the stairs, he’s still so deep in his own malicious thoughts that he doesn’t see the boulder-sized cube outside his door until he’s nearly on top of it.

At first, he thinks he’s actually seeing things—he’s been trapped in this wretched form too long and has lost all control of his senses—but then he spots the square of parchment tucked under the hefty emerald ribbon trailing evenly up the sides. The package itself is a deep ember. Melkor rips out the parchment to read, in Aulë’s own scrawl:

_‘I have been informed that for this holiday the Eldar are so happily celebrating now, it is customary to exchange gifts. As I know you so enjoying visiting my furnaces and do so envy my craft—’_

Melkor nearly crumples the parchment to bits in his hand. He’s _not_ jealous. If Aulë only knew the true reason for his near-constant visits...

_‘—and certain parties professed themselves quite agreeable, it seemed only right to lend you this brilliant tool of mine for the holiday season._

_May you have good cheer,  
Aulë’_

Lend. Apparently, someone needs to inform Aulë further—he doesn’t seem to grasp the meaning of a ‘gift.’ Melkor has half a mind to push whatever it is down the stairs.

But he does have more control than that. And he has a greater scheme to abide by. If anything, he reminds himself, this bodes well—it helps to have as many Valar disarmed by him as possible. Because of that (and perhaps a tiny bit because he’s curious) Melkor squeezes around it to push his door open, then drags the hefty package inside. It’s heavier than he expected, certainly not just a mass of extra padding as he might’ve thought, but nothing for a Vala. Once it’s safely in his foyer and the door’s shut again to block the cold, Melkor does a slow circle of the perimeter and tries to gauge what it is. From the size, he’d almost guess it an actual forge, but it isn’t quite _that_ heavy.

Finally, he just rips the ribbon away. With that gone, the lid is easy to lift, and Melkor stands on the tips of his toes so he can peer inside.

He’s not sure what he expected.

But it certainly wasn’t _Mairon_.

Mairon, his gorgeous, conniving, apparently-not-so-secret lover is curled at the bottom, bent fully in on himself with his knees pressed to his chin and his arms drawn behind his back. He’s utterly naked except for a golden collar and silken red ribbon crisscrossing everywhere from head to foot, thoroughly binding him together. His eyes are wrapped in it, his wrists tied. His fire-gold hair is fanned out about him in the crinkled bed of fabric cushioning. His face tilts up, perhaps at the hall’s light streaming around the sides of his blindfold. Then his plush lips draw into a wide grin, and he purrs sweetly, “Master?”

He shouldn’t speak such a word when he’s unsure of his surroundings. If Aulë overhead the way Mairon addresses Melkor when they’re alone...

But it seems Aulë already knows some of the lewd lengths Melkor will go to when he gets his hands on that supple flesh, or at least how much lust enters Mairon’s eyes whenever Melkor steps into the forge. It grates at Melkor that in this, at least, Aulë was right—Melkor _does_ envy this tool.

But it will be his soon enough. He’s sure of that. When Mairon tries to lift himself up, sniffing at the air and inclining his face towards Melkor, it puts the collar clamped around his neck in better view. There’s a pendant attached to the front, resting in the middle of Mairon’s collarbone, that reads simply: _Aulë_.

Melkor frowns at that. He wants to growl. He knows whom Mairon belongs to, at least on the surface, but at heart, Mairon is so irrevocably, undeniably _his_...

He reaches down into the box, crumbling half the side in his wake, and wraps his hand tight around Mairon’s neck. Mairon makes a choking noise, but Melkor doesn’t desist. He surges his power forward, letting it ripple out of the Eldar form to boil the gold away, and it melts beneath his long fingers. Mairon quivers and lets out a languid moan as the metal oozes down along his throat, the front finally collapsed enough for Melkor to shove the rest away. It rattles in a ruined heap to the side, leaving Mairon’s skin an angry pink but free of another’s marking. He writhes in his packaging like the blaze has only turned him on, and Melkor can see the evidence that it has—Mairon’s cock, wrapped tightly against his stomach, is now flushed and straining at the ribbon. Melkor thinks of telling his little firecracker to burn it all away: leave the bindings no more than ash and a hot bed for them to enjoy.

But then, he does quite enjoy the sight of Mairon like this, displayed so wholly at his mercy...

Mairon mutters huskily over one bare shoulder, “I will have to wear that again when I am returned.”

Melkor can’t help but snort, “You expect me to return you, then?”

“I wish I did not,” Mairon counters. His knowing grin says he would very much prefer to stay _right here_ and sully Manwë’s lands, but he knows well how dedicated Melkor is to his plans. And their time hasn’t yet come. So Mairon will be returned, unfortunately, once Melkor has thoroughly taken his fill. 

He reaches down again to brush his fingers through Mairon’s shimmering hair. Changing the subject, he quietly scolds, “You will have to be less obvious with your crush.”

Mairon’s face twists into a pout. It’s far too adorable for the true monster Mairon is. Melkor clenches his hand into a fist and gives a sharp tug, earning a ragged cry, and then wrenches Mairon up by it. The blindfold slips incrementally down Mairon’s eyes, revealing just the very tips of them, but it’s enough to see the raging intensity trapped there. It pushes Melkor to take pity on his poor servant.

He lunges in, hissing, “Burn it all,” before he smashes their mouths together. Mairon presses eagerly back into him, searing his lips, the ribbon and packaging and box itself all melting away under Mairon’s fire. Only Melkor could ever tame it. He drags Mairon back down into the tender licks of their flames, and he sets in to thoroughly ravage a gift that was already truly _his_.


End file.
